Once More, with Feeling!
by TheTrueLight
Summary: "DeWitt!" Jack yells, "If we die, I'll see you in Hell!" "Stuff it, Harper!" Booker cries back, "We're not dead yet!" "Five thousand feet." The automated voice says as the pod shoots into the sky, "Ten thousand feet." "We are so screwed!" Jack panics. This is an AU story where Booker has a partner when he comes to Columbia. OCxElizabeth. Rated T for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm back and better than ever! This is my first Bioshock FF. Slightly AU because while I did like the ending (IT IS FAN-TASTIC), I just wanted to put my own spin on the story. Peace! -TTL**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own the Bioshock franchise or any affiliates. **

The night was dark and cold and the weather was unforgiving. As the rain lashed the boat over and over again and again Booker heard someone yelling his name.

"Booker!" The voice said, "Booker! Snap out of it! I think we're almost there!"

The voice was young, male, and barely audible over the crashing of the waves and crackling of the thunder. Booker looked up to see his partner, Jack Harper yelling at him. The young man had just joined him this year. Booker decided to take the boy in after he had shown up at his door asking for a job.

Cornelius Slate, his father and Booker's old "friend" had abandoned Jack and his mother and a young age for a job in some forsaken place. Despite this, Jack was a good kid, except when he was on the job. He was cold, calculated, and focused. In a lot of ways, Jack mirrored his father, but Booker chose not to mention that.

Jack stood at a good 6'1 and was well versed in the use of weaponry. Booker never would have guessed him to be Slate's son if Jack didn't have a picture with him. Jack had dirty blonde hair and freckles on his face, in fact, when Booker met him the kid looked like a farm boy lost in the big city. He carried a bowie knife with him at all times and was a crack shot with most rifles.

But Jack was illusive at times too. When Booker would ask about Jack's training, he would simply shrug and say "Hunting" or if he asked about his mother, Jack would just go silent.

Suddenly, one of the couple that shared the boat with Booker and his partner tapped Jack on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," She said curtly, "Do **you** happen to row? Apparently your friend over there doesn't and my Brother seems rather desperate for some aid in this exercise."

Jack shot Booker a dirty glance before her answered her with a smile, "It'd be my pleasure to help row, ma'am." Grabbing the second set of oars.

As Jack turned around and began rowing, the lady next to him passed back a box to Booker. It was the box that he had when he was still in the 7th Cavalry Division, back before Wounded Knee. Inside he found a few items: Some coins, a key, a pistol, a card with New York's coordinates, a paper with a scroll, key and sword with a x1, x2, and x2 next to the respective symbols, something that looked like a postcard from a place called Monument Island, and a picture of a young woman named Elizabeth.

She looked about Jack's age, but the picture was at an awkward angle so it was hard to tell much else. Booker turned the picture over to find a message: 'Bring to New York unharmed'.

Booker pocketed some the items, holstered the pistol, and kept his eyes forward. Jack seemed focused on rowing and the couple in front of him seemed to be arguing about something. Then the lighthouse came into view.

Booker thought that the place was the epitome of dreariness as he and Jack disembarked from the boat. Turning around, Booker saw that the couple remained on the boat and were rowing away.

"Hey!" Booker yelled at the increasingly small pair, "Is somebody meeting us here?"

"I would certainly hope so!" The lady cried over the storm's bellows, "It seems like a dreadful place to be stranded on in this weather!"

"Well, boss." Jack said as he climbed out from the shack next to them, "Nowhere else to go, but into that lighthouse. The other boat here is busted beyond repair."

Braving the howling storm, Booker and Jack made for the door, only to find an ominous note left for them written in red ink: 'DeWitt,' the note read, 'Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt. **This is your last chance!'**

"Hell's bells," Jack whistled, "Are our debts that high?"

"Mine are." Booker grumbled as he knocked on the door, "Excuse me, its Booker DeWitt and Jack Harper. I think you were expecting us."

After a second, he looked at Jack and shrugged at he opened the door. The interior of the lighthouse matched the exterior's dreariness. It was poorly lit, dingy and cold. The pair of investigators approached a washbasin sitting under one of many signs concerning the washing of sins.

Jack and Booker looked at each other and shared a chuckle after staring into the basin.

"What a load of bull." Jack said, "We came here for a job, not a church service."

"Yeah," Booker nodded in agreement, "anyway, its not like a dip in a pool of water will actually wipe away our sins."

Making their way through the lighthouse, the pair found many odd things, such as a telephone that connected to nowhere the steps are creaky and the glass in the windows is cracked. One each new floor, trash, piles of paper, and empty cabinets are scattered everywhere. A radio crackles, playing upbeat music that does not fit the setting at all. But despite the natural dreariness and darkness of the place, the most concerning discovery that they made was a dead man, his face covered by a blood-stained burlap sack, tied to a chair and sitting in a pool of his own blood. Around his neck was a note: **Don't Disappoint Us!**

"Jesus Christ," Jack explained as he examined the man, "He's been gone for a while, boss. Rigor mortis is already set. Whoever did this is long gone."

"It's not them I'm worried about." Booker said grimly as he turned away from the scene, "Let's go Jack. We have a job to do."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Relented Jack.

At the top of the lighthouse, they find a door. Locked behind it, sit a pair of burgundy velvet chairs side by side. Jack tries to find a way open the door to no avail. Booker spots a trio of bells, each with a symbol: A scroll, a key, and a sword.

"Jack, hold up a bit." Booker takes out the card with the same symbols on it. He rings the bells left to right in the numbers the card tells him. The sky itself began to weep red light as horns resounded through the air.

"What in the world is that noise?" Booker stares upwards in confusion and awe.

Jack turns around and notices that the staircase behind them is covered by a grate.

"No way out, Booker!" He yells over the horns,"The way back is sealed shut!"

Now the lighthouse begins its own series of less omnipresent tones and flashes of red light, as if in communication with the sky above. The world above again answers with its great horns. Then, a bell rings and the doors open.

"You've been holding out on me again, Mr. DeWitt." Jack teases playfully as he breaths a sigh of relief.

"Well," Booker says smugly as they enter the room, "I _am_ the boss. Even you tell me that."

"Well I guess they want us to sit in these fancy chairs." Jack eases himself into a seat.

"No other options." Booker agrees as he takes his own.

As if on cue, the second Booker settles into the chair, metal clamps bind the duo's legs to the chairs, setting off an air of panic. Then, to make matters worse, the floor angles downwards to show rockets and then Bookers pistol slips from its holster to the ground below.

"Ah shit!" Booker's eyes widen as the gun tumbles away and the floor corrects itself. Suddenly the compartment begins the shake and structures rise from the floor to make a pod.

"What the hell were those things?! And please don't tell me we only had one gun." Jack laments as he tries to get over the shock of what just happened.

Booker's grimace is all Jack needs to answer his question. "Fuck." He shakes his head in dismay, "We. Are. Fucked."

"Do not be alarmed, Pilgrims. The restraints are for your own safety." An automated voice crackles over an unseen intercom.

"Oh now they tell us no to pani-holy shiiiiiit!" Booker begins only to be cut off by the roaring of the rockets roar to life.

"DeWitt!" Jack struggles to be hear over the loud roars of the rockets, "If we die, I'll see you in Hell!"

"Stuff it, Harper!" Booker cries back, "We're not dead yet!"

"Five thousand feet." The automated voice starts on cue as the pod shoots into the sky, "Ten thousand feet."

"We are so screwed!" Jack panics. He would be thrashing in the chair if the force of gravity weren't holding him in place.

"Fifteen thousand feet." The voice continues as the pair believe their demise has come, "Hallelujah."

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**So, how was it? Like it? Hate it? Questions/Comments/Concerns? Review or PM me with anything. Feedback is greatly appreciated! **

**Much love-TTL**


	2. Chapter 2

**OK, so a few things before you read this.**

**1) I am posting this at roughly 1:00 AM my time so its really late for me and**** I just got back from vacation and there is work to be done. This was all I was able to make during the little free time I had and I haven't really revised it at all, so sorry for mistakes :P. **

**2) I am incredibly honored and humbled by the support that anyone who enjoyed the first chapter of OMwF! and I can only hope to meet and soar above those expectations. That being said, I am looking for a Beta Reader. I've never had on so I don't really know how the process works.**

**3) Time to respond to some reviews (This is only if you had a specific question or criticism or something that made me laugh) **

**Prince of Havok: I remember PMing you back, but if you didn't read it. I agree with your criticisms to an extent. Chapter length is relative for me and while I myself enjoy reading longer chapters, I find it hard to write longer chapters. With that in mind, I will try to make them longer.**

**Protagonist7: I also believe that we've discussed this. Jack is really an X-Factor. He will evolve as the story itself evolves. I may or may not write out more specific storyboards for him, but right now they do not exist.**

**Archer83: I'm fairly sure that by posting this chapter I'm answering that question. Like the reference though, haha!**

**The Mystery Guest reviewer: Ummmm...no? They don't die. Also, Booker only had a gun because there was one in his box. Jack had no such opportunity. I also don't remember saying what Jack was fully proficient with in regards to weaponry.**

**VividReederSeeder: o.0' **

**Lockman776: I know who Harry Dresden is, but I can't say that I've read the books. From what I've researched/heard about him Harry and Jack are ideologically similar, but I won't say any more for the sake of not spoiling character development.**

**bigstupidjellyfish 1337: Yeah, I very much understand that criticism. The fact is though, I can't write a very good summary and I knew I was taking a gamble by posting the excerpt. I am flattered that you said it has great potential, thank you.**

**Jaggedlightning has a bazooka: First, I love your name. Second, I'll implement those changes when I update the chapter next time and I'll make sure to not do that again.**

**I'm really sorry for the huge A/N, but I really wanted to get all of that stuff out of the way first. Please enjoy the second chapter!  
-With Love, TTL**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own the Bioshock franchise or any affiliates.**

"Fifteen thousand feet." The voice continued to crackle, "Hallelujah."

For a few seconds, neither Booker nor Jack had realized that the pod had stopped shaking and that it no longer rocketed in the sky. By this point, they both fully expected to have gone to heaven, or hell for that matter, in a fantastic example of upper atmospheric pyrotechnics. However, hearing the sound of his own heavy breathing, Booker slowly opened his eyes.

"What the hell?" Whispered Booker as he drank in the scene through the pod's small window, "Jack…open your eyes."

Still cringing in fear, Booker's voice shook his partner back into reality and he too creaked his eyes open.

"Mother of God" Jack softly exclaimed, "Booker, are we dead?"

The pair beheld what little they could see from the window. Rather than struggling in their chairs for survival, they now did it to take in a better view in front of them.

The sight outside was absolutely breathtaking. Flying outside laid a city in the sky, above the howls of the stormy hell below. Fireworks shot into the air and exploded in delight of their arrival and the Sun's rays of light caressed the buildings, giving them a heavenly shine.

As they began to softly descend as if a cloud bore them to safety, Jack turned to his partner.

"DeWitt," Booker's young friend grinned, " I know I said I'd see you there if we went to Hell, but if this is Heaven, I think owe you a drink. You like Bourbon?"

Booker opened his mouth to agree with his friend, but then a voice repeated a message over and over in his head.

"Bring us the girl," the mysterious voice droned, "and wipe away the debt, Mr. DeWitt."

Booker grimaced closing his eyes and trying to forget the voice. But, the voice was right. No matter how pretty this place was, Booker didn't give a damn.

"Maybe in another universe, Jack" Booker laughed grimly, "But we have a job to do, remember?"

Jack's jovial expression faded and his grin turned into a slight frown as he nodded in resignation.

Perfectly on time with Jack's sad nod, the clamps holding the pair released and the pair stood up to stretch and rub their wrists and legs. The door slid downwards to reveal a stained glass illustration of a wizened man guiding people to the flying city. The room hummed with soft chanting of hymns.

Jack took his intrepid steps out from the safety of the pod.

"I think we're in a church, boss." He scanned the room, "But these people are no Christians."

The floor was flooded with a shallow pool of running water and Booker joined his friend to see what he had meant. The area was decorated very much like a cathedral with its windows and cruciform floor plan. However, what set this church aside from its Christian counterparts was that it lacked any dedication to God or Jesus. Instead, it depicted an old man called Zachary Comstock or 'The Prophet' and shrines to a 'Lady Comstock'. As they moved away from the initial room, a carved stone banner flew above their heads.

'The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flames the mountains of man' it read.

"Just a hunch, boss." Jack stated, "But I think people here have their heads in the clouds, so to speak"

"Glorious…" Booker muttered as the beheld the mural again; "It takes a special kind of ego to make a religion about yourself."

The pair began to explore the area for anything they could use taking what little money they could find from the donations left to Lady Comstock, but finding no weapons.

"Nothing" Booker sighed as he exited the last side room, "Not one thing I could use as a weapon."

"It's a church, Boss" Jack scolded, "I'd be concerned if they did have a gun lying around. At least we got some money from the donations."

"At least you have your Bowie Knife," Booker retorted, "But you're right, collectively we have about $100 of these Silver Eagles."

Soon they happened upon a man, his hands folded in prayer, wearing a white cassock.

"Excuse me!" Booker grabbed the man's attention, "Could you tell me where we are?"

The man smiled that reminded Booker of a parent explaining something to a child. It annoyed him.

"Heaven my friends." The man answered simply before returning to his silent prayers, "Or as close as we'll see till Judgment Day."

Rolling his eyes Booker continued down the stairwell and Jack followed. At the bottom, the partners faced a lane filled with water flanked by short walls with floating candles. As they stepped forward, they realized at other people surrounded them. To the sides and beyond the walls, men and women alike stepped forward slowly, muttering prayers as they marched. To the front a preacher was addressing the crowd before him. But, beyond the priest was a tunnel.

"As much as a hate priests and religious crap," Booker spat, "That looks like out ticket out of here."

As his older friend continued on, Jack lingered ruminating on not only what his friend had just said, but his overall demeanor. Booker DeWitt was by all means a good person, Jack knew this. However, some days, life really got dark, Booker would go on a drinking binge and start ranting about the horrors he had seen. How he had seen streams run thick with blood coursing through them. Other times still, Booker would start talking about his dead wife and daughter. His brow furrowed in concern.

'_Booker,'_ Jack thought before dashing to catch up, _'what happened at Wounded Knee? Just what did you and my father see that day? And just what happened to your family?'_

When they had reached the back of the crowd in front of the tunnel, Booker and Jack muscled their way through to the front. Booker opened his mouth to address the bombastic preacher. However, seeing Booker's annoyed expression, Jack interjected.

"My apologies, father," Jack gave a slight bow as he interrupted the old man, "But could you give myself and my friend here passage into the city?"

"My dear brother," The priest drawled, "Our true fathers are only the Great Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin as well as their Prophet, Father Comstock."

At this Booker gave a heavy sigh and even rolled his eyes, but the priest seemed to take little notice and continued on.

"And should you both seek passage into our city of Columbia, the only way is rebirth in the sweet waters of holy baptism. Will you be cleansed, brothers?"

The old man offered his hands to Booker and Jack. The crowd behind them encouraged them with words of hold praise. Although his face contorted into a mix of anger, grief, and annoyance, Booker nodded as he grabbed the preacher's hand and Jack followed suit.

"Very well, my brothers" The Priest began, "I baptize you in the names of our Founders and their prophet Father Comstock. I-"

Booker and Jack couldn't hear the rest as the wizened fool forced them under the water. They thrashed against the cold embrace of the waters as their lives faded away. Suddenly, the priest pulled them up and out from their watery doom.

"The hell was that?" Jack breathlessly questioned as he fell to his knees in exhaustion, gasping for some air.

Booker had no breath at all and as his lungs cried out for air, two men restrained him and Jack. The priest took a long stare at them both.

With a malicious grin the priest began again, "I don't know, my brothers and sisters, but these two still look dirty to me!"

The crowed cheered for the sick ritual to continue and the priest again turned to Booker, Jack, and their willing guards. The fool then gestured to the guards.

"Would you kindly show them the light of the Founders and our Prophet?" He ordered.

"Shit" Was all Booker could say before they forced him under again. However, this time there was no reprieve. The pressure of the two men restraining Booker kept him under the water. As the last of his air bubbled away, Booker's vision faded into darkness.

When Booker opened his eyes again he was in his office, a loud banging on the door served as his alarm as he awoke. Booker glanced down at his desk. It was littered with useless horse racing tickets and forms, all of them bust, half a dozen empty bottles of whiskey, vodka, and beer, a few packets of empty cigarettes, his pistol, and his Pinkerton badge and I.D. He looked around, but he couldn't see Jack. Then, Booker remembered where he was.

This shit was his life twenty years ago, when he had lost his wife and daughter to 'birth complications'. After that, he drank himself into oblivion and begun to nurture a gambling habit which gave way to a gambling addiction. When Jack found him, Booker's life was in the gutter. In fact, Jack was more the reason that Booker had decided to try to fix himself up.

The banging on the door continued and snapped Booker out of his stroll down memory lane. Suddenly, an ominous voice boomed from behind the door.

"Mr. DeWitt!" The male voice beckoned, "Mr. DeWitt!"

"What?" Booker asked, "Who's there?"

"Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt, Mr. DeWitt!" The voice answered.

"What do you want?" Booker yelled angrily as he made his way over to the door.

"We had a deal, DeWitt!" The voice continued to nag, "Open this door right now!" It demanded.

Heaving a sigh of exasperation, Booker grasped the handle.

"I told you…" The detective said wearily, "I'm-I'm not gonna do it! Now go away!"

But the voice didn't do as he asked. It kept banging on the door, over and over again. Yelling his name in fury. Finally Booker couldn't stand one more moment of this torture and he opened the door. But behind the door, there was no man, no hallway, no building. No, what laid behind the door was Hell itself.

It was New York City, but not the New York City that Booker knew. It was different, changed. The buildings were full of light in the dark of the night. Two huge towers seemed to scrape at the sky. But that was not what made it Hell. The Hell was borne in the tongues of fire that licked the streets as giant zeppelins rained down showers of explosive nature onto the city. In the distance Booker could hear the cries of people as they perished and he could see the ominous outline of a city in the sky. Before he had a chance to act, an airship reared its head and sent a ball of flame that once again sent Booker tumbling into the darkness.

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**There you go! Once again sorry for the long A/N at the top. I have another chapter about 1/4 of the way done right now and if I finish my school work fast enough and get home fast enough, I may be able to post it tomorrow. Please R&R if you wish to, I really like to see the feedback!  
-Graciously, TTL**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Let me start off by apologizing for how long this took. Life just decided to take over and it took me a long ass time to even have enough free time to write this. Realizing that, this chapter is roughly 4x longer than the previous chapters. Once again I'm really sorry for this being so late. I would like to thank the most patient beta in the world "Jaggedlightning has a Bazooka" for all the work put into editing this chapter and to you guys as well for reading and reviewing this story. Just a few more things before you can get to the story:**

**1) I know that some authors recommend songs for people to listen to while they read and this isn't what I'm doing right now, but if you want to hear a fantastic Bioshock Infinite related song, look up miracleofsound's new song "Dream of the Sky" on youtube. IT. IS. FANTASTIC.**

**2) Jack and Elizabeth will not have a wild "love at first sight" romance. I promise you that. It just makes no sense to me for it to happen and its also kinda impossible for the story to turn to mushyness if they're trying to escape Columbia. **

**3) For people who are straight up tossing recommendations at me, I appreciate that, I really do, but please explain why and not just "This doesn't _sound_ like the 1900s" I want a clear explanation why it _isn't _not just why it doesn't entirely appeal to you. It would also help to give me examples and such.**

**4) WARNING: I have used once and fully intend to use in the future derogatory terms referring to ethnicities (i.e. negr*es). This _was_ the 1900s after all. Please understand I do not wish to offend anyone by using them. I myself am a minority and have suffered such terms before. If it assuages anyone, I will attempt to minimize situations in which the word(s) would arise, but no promises.**

**5) Most importantly, I still would like to have more people beta this story. Rather odd, I know, but I think multiple opinions are good for the story dynamic. If you ask, please explain why in a PM, not just a request to do so. If you write an in-depth review, expect me to PM you about the prospect.**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own the Bioshock franchise or any affiliates.**

Booker awoke violently as he coughed and sputtered out the water from his lungs. He patted himself all over; He was no longer drowning in the shallow pool. There was no voice demanding his presence, And he was most certainly not watching the different New York burn as airships invaded the city. No, Booker was awake, and alive.

'A dream.' He thought to himself, 'No…a nightmare, But it wasn't real. Thank goodness it wasn't real.'

"Ugh," He gagged weakly, "Jack?…Jack where are you?"

Booker scanned the shallow pool where he was currently laying for his partner, his eyes quickly settling on a figure to his right.

"Jack!" Booker scrambled over to his friend with adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Jack's body had come to a stop in the water like Booker's, but unlike his, Jack's body was facedown. Booker frantically turned his friend over to see what he could do.

Between his time as a soldier in the cavalry division, Pinkerton Agent, and Private Investigator, Booker had seen countless numbers of people drown. In some cases, it was Booker drowning someone else. And through all of this, Booker had been trained on how to revive a drowned man. Applying pressure to the abdomen and chest usually did the trick.

Booker began to apply pressure to Jack's abdomen and after a minute of desperately pumping his chest, Jack coughed up water and began gasping for air.

"Boss?" Jack said wearily as his eyes fluttered open, "What the hell happened?"

"That idiot priest needs to learn the difference between baptizing a man and drowning one." Booker growled in his rage, "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah, I'll be good, boss." Jack replied as he cradled his head, "You?"

Booker recalled the horrific nightmare he had just awoken from. He was sure it wasn't from drinking or from withdrawal. After all, Jack had kept him fairly sober for the past few months, at first it had been tough as hell. Heck, it still was, but Booker could control himself now. So what did it mean? He hoped it meant nothing at all.

"Let's just take a few minutes to rest."

The detectives stood up and exited the pool they had awoken in. They both took a few minutes to rest and recover from their recent ordeal. In fact, Jack rather appreciated his surroundings.

"If they hadn't just about killed us with their zealotry," Jack stated gingerly, "I would compliment them on their taste at the very least."

And he hadn't been joking either. The beauty of the garden around them was breathtaking. The sun reflected the blue sky beautifully and the slow, cool breeze in the garden created an atmosphere of serenity. Bronze statues of angels holding scrolls praised the City. There were people kneeling in the pool, focused on prayer.

Jack smiled, the slight ache of nostalgia in his heart. As a kid, he never had anyone to turn to, but God. His dad, damn him, abandoned Jack and his mother when he was only 4-years old. As a result, his mother had turned to drinking to drown out her sorrows. And despite all that, Jack always went to church on Sunday.

God, Jack believed, always provided in his times of need. For that, he was thankful. What vehemently annoyed both Jack and Booker was to whom the people prayed: Franklin, Washington, and Jefferson.

To Jack, it was absolutely ridiculous for people to worship men and not God, or at least some deity. He saw it as heresy and blasphemy, slandering one of the few good things he ever knew in his life.

To Booker, it was just one more piece of zealotry he and Jack would have to deal with while they where here. He'd always hated this religious shit for the past twenty years. It didn't solve anything. Booker had read Marx, and he agreed, "Religion is the opiate of the masses"

But to both detectives, this meant trouble. Religion was the driving force behind so many conflicts and so much strife. If the people of this city in the sky were so dedicated to this "Patriotic Religion" and to their leader Comstock, then what would they do for his sake?

"Well then," Jack stood up and stretched, "Let's get moving, boss."

"Yeah," Booker agreed with a huff as he stood up, "We gotta find a landmark and figure out where the hell we are."

"Whoa, boss," Jack laughed, "Huffing and puffing to get up already? Maybe you should get a desk job."

"The day I get a desk job is the day you get married, kid." Booker joked back.

Jack winced slightly. It was joke between the two that Jack had never really had someone he was sweet on. A lot of nice girls kept expressing interest, but Jack always rebuffed them. He was always "Looking for the right gal." Something Booker endlessly teased him about.

Making their way up the stairs to the right, Booker and Jack were met by a man, his hands clasped together in prayer. The man looked down on them with a smile.

"Our Prophet and Fathers fill our lungs with water so that they may better love the air." He said innocently, as if that statement could make their recent near-death experience completely disappear.

Booker's face molded into a disapproving scowl and Jack shook his head in disbelief.

"Just because a city flies don't mean it ain't got its fair share of fools." Booker mocked as he and Jack walked towards the garden's exit.

"Booker," Jack stopped his partner, "Wait."

Booker turned around to see his young companion regarding him with concern.

"What's wrong, Jack?" Booker asked.

"What's wrong?" Jack sighed, "Booker, we've been partners for a year and you've always, always, had some issue with religion. It's personal with you. Why?"

"I don't-" Booker tried to defend himself.

"Yes, you do, Booker." Jack corrected, "Did you think I didn't notice how irritable you are on Sundays or how you scowl while I'm praying?"

Booker grit his teeth in frustration. Jack was his friend, his only friend in the whole world. But Booker believed in his heart that Jack could never understand why.

God had always been a personal issue. After all, what sort of God forces you to senselessly murder people? What kind of God always steals those whom you love from your arms? As far as Booker was concerned, if he existed, God should be damned.

"Just…" Booker gazed into the blue depths of Jack's gaze, "just drop it, Jack. You…you wouldn't understand."

Booker turned around and kept walking towards the creamy white threshold.

'Booker,' Jack thought to himself before catching up with his partner, 'You don't know how much I do understand'

"Now or never," Booker said as he pushed the doors open. The scene that met them was one of utter tranquility. The place was called "New Eden Square" and a new Eden it was.

The buildings reminded Jack and Booker of New York, but everything was so much…happier. The sun shone off of the paved roads, glistening as if they were golden. The people, men, women, and children alike were scattered throughout the street, chatting, relaxing, and even enjoying a picnic. Stores and other models of aeronautic architecture hovered lazily around them. Some places would link to the square whilst others drifted away. The sounds of bells and fireworks cracked through the air. In the middle of the square, stood a gigantic statue of Comstock, brandishing a sword as his magnificent beard rippled in the air.

More interestingly, large cargo containers zoomed through the air through suspended metal rails. The city was truly an aesthetic and technological marvel. What kind of magic could make buildings fly? Or make ships that floated over fifteen thousand feet in the air? Even if Comstock was a mad prophet, he was a genius as well.

"Well, boss," Jack said as he whistled, "Crazy or not, you gotta admit this Comstock guys has serious class. Not liking the beard too much though."

As the two men walked around the area, the people of Columbia greeted them. All of them were kind and respectful. Some of the younger women even tried to flirt with them. However, something was amiss with these people. Amid the festivities of the carnival, Booker and Jack found something woefully odd.

"Booker…" Jack whispered, "Where are all the negroes? There's not one in sight."

"You're right," Booker agreed, squirming a bit at the derogatory word, "Not one in sight. Weird."

After weathering barrages of "Good mornings", "Hellos" and, to their chagrin, more assertions of Comstock's divinity, the duo overheard some more interesting conversation.

"Now what exactly does Vox Populi even mean?" A young lady sitting at a café wondered.

Her partner, a man in white clothing answered, "It's Latin. I think it means-"

"Oh! Latin! Hahaha" The woman interjected and ended the conversation before it blossomed.

"So what does it mean?" Booker asked.

"Vox is Latin for voice. Populi is the genitive possessive form of 'populus' meaning people. Which means…Voice of the People. Maybe some people here don't follow Comstock as ardently as we thought."

"How do you know that?" The old veteran asked in amazement.

Jack gave a little grin before answering, "Catholic mass is all Latin. A long way back, I asked the priest for lessons. Fr. Wright was his name if I remember properly. A bear of a man, but rather gentle too."

"I'll be damned." Booker chuckled, "Your religious habit actually helped. You're right though. If there are any dissenters, then we could make use of them."

As they walked through the area, children played with the water from a broken open fire hydrant in the streets. In the further distance, shops, houses, and magnificent structures floated around the city. Mechanical horses propelled by some electrical power source pulled carriages through the streets. But what happened next outraged Booker.

Floats paraded though the air, cutting of the pair's pathway as they attempted to proceed through the streets. On the first parade float, an angel visited a wizened man, Comstock, and an announcer narrated the scene.

"After the victory at the Battle of Wounded Knee, the angel Columbia did appear to Father Comstock and grant him a vision of the future." The announcer enthusiastically piped.

Ignoring the rest of the narrator's speech Booker muttered furiously, "Victory? Comstock thinks Wounded Knee was a 'victory'? It was a massacre! Innocent people died at Wounded Knee! How dare he-"

Jack grabbed Booker's shoulder and glared at him. After a moment his expression morphed into one of sympathy and concern.

"Booker…I know that you're angry about this, I am too, but there's nothing we can do here and now. We have no guns, no friends, and no idea where we are. Comstock will get what's coming I swear it on my life. But you have to let it go for now."

"Yeah…you're right," Booker let his wild breathing slow down, "Sorry."

Crossing the street, a large sign was plastered to the wall. On it a shrouded decrepit figure wielding a crooked staff directed a snow-white lamb away from Monument Island. The sign warned against this figure, this false shepherd who would lead the lamb astray.

"Just who is this girl?" Booker wondered.

"I think the last thing the narrator mentioned was something along the lines of Comstock's daughter being the 'Lamb of Columbia', I guess that's what this poster is about." Jack answered his partner.

Nearby a quartet, advertised as "Columbia's Gayest!" struck up a tune relaxing the atmosphere, "God only knows what I'd be without you…" the group mused. Booker and Jack decided it was time to keep moving through the city. While the city was magnificent and splendorous, the pair simply decided to keep moving.

Soon enough the pair could see their prize in the distance.

"There it is," Booker stated resolutely, "Monument Island. That's where they said we'd find her."

"Wow…"Jack admired, "It's…beautiful."

Even from so far away, Monument Island was huge. If anything in Columbia it would be the great structure of Monument Island. Across the sea of clouds an Angel stretched out her hands welcoming you to her bosom. The sun softly caressed her back, giving the monument a majestic glow. Booker and Jack were completely captivated by the Islands transcendent beauty, until a high-pitched voice snapped them from their heavenly fixation.

"Telegram Mr. DeWitt!" A young boy squeaked below them.

"Hm?" Booker looked down.

"Telegram for you sir!" The child gives Booker the message and turns around.

"Hey kid, catch!" Jack calls after the boy, tossing him a Silver Eagle. The boy flashes a toothy grin and leaves.

"So what's it say, Boss?" Jack asks

"DeWitt, STOP. Do not alert Comstock to your presence STOP. Whatever you do, do not pick #77 STOP-Lutece" Booker answers, "What the heck does that mean."

"Dunno, Boss, let's hope we won't have to find out." Jack comments.

They make their way along the street to a gated area. Two policemen resolutely stand guard side by side.

"You wanna let us through here, pal?" Booker asks dispassionately.

"The streets cut off for your own safety, fella. They're prepping tonight's fireworks back there" The policeman on the left turns them away. His companion is swift to support him.

"Yeah, there's enough TNT back there to blow Peking to kingdom come…again." He sniggers.

"Great, a road block." Jack sighs, "Now what?"

"We go around," Booker says eyeing up some stairs behind them leading to a fair.

Like the rest of the city, the area is quite festive. Inundated with booths, showcases, games, and more. Men, women, and children alike fill the area marveling at the inventions and enjoying themselves with the games. One display in particular catches Jack's eye.

"Was that guy just flying!?" Jack exclaims.

The display has three men. One, wearing a top hat and suit, stands on an blue elevate platform about ten feet above the ground addressing the crowd and the other two, dressed as devils perform wondrous feats with powers from their hands. The devils below amaze the crowd with their abilities, generating electricity, levitating one another, playing with fireballs, or even conjuring up wispy green ethereal specters that dance around them.

"That's right, ladies and gentlemen! In a great stroke of magnificence our Prophet and Jeremiah Fink have created the modern marvels of our lives and now introduce to you Vigors!" The announcer cries.

"Is this magic?" Jack wonders aloud.

"Are you silly, boy?" a young lady with a southern accent corrects him, "Why those are vigors! Mr. Fink and Father Comstock developed these to ease the lives and minds of we Columbian citizens! Why you can use Shock Jockey to make power for instance! They are just so…wonderful! Although, my husband does tell me that drinking them causes you to hallucinate just a bit!"

"That's incredible…" Jack says, "Booker how is this even possible?"

"I don't know and don't wanna know, kid." Booker mutters, "But if they can do it, we should use it."

They pass through the archway to the festival proper and its in full swing. Kids laughing and playing with their parents looking at new products and inventions or trying to win prizes for their progeny at the games. Jack goes wide-eyed and turns to Booker, who promptly hangs his head in shame.

"C'mon Booker, _please_?" Jack begs, "Just ten-no, five minutes!"

"Jack," Booker shakes his head, "We have a job to do."

"Five minutes, it'll be over before you know it!" He pleads.

Looking into Jack's eyes, Booker's resolve crumbles. At times, Booker forgets that Jack never had time to just be a kid. He was almost always working to support him and his mother. Booker guessed that this was just his way of catching up.

"Ok," Booker relents, "Only, five minutes and you better find a way around that roadblock."

"Thanks, Boss!" Jack beams as he runs off to enjoy himself.

Seeing his childish partner flee, Booker decided to walk around a bit. He sees that electrical horse from before being showcased, it doesn't look that much better than before, but what can be done? Booker seriously doubted it would be easy to transport and sustain a population of live horses in a flying city. Then, he tested a Voxophone. An odd device in Booker's opinion and he saw little use for them. What was the point in using a heavy device for a recorded message?

Eventually in his short walk, Booker found the showcase for Betterman's Autobodies featuring "The Handyman!" As the advertiser explained, the gigantic Handyman is simply the body and heart of a dying individual reconstructed and mechanized to ensure a productive post-mortem life. While the concept itself was ambitious in nature, Booker saw the reality of the project. The 'Handyman' was nothing short of an abomination, the behemoth's face was contorted into sorrow and pain as if flinched away from the sharp flashes of cameras and hid itself from the piercing eyes of the spectators.

"He looks so sad." A woman behind Booker said with a frown.

"Sad?" said her skeptical companion, "When you're that strong, what's there to be sad about?"

"Strength isn't everything." She retorted angrily.

Booker was about to say something when, someone tapped him on the back.

"Time's up Boss!" Jack gives a wolfish grin. He's holding a large bag with him.

"What's the bag for, Jack?" Booker asks.

Jack's smile grows wider before he explains, "Well, there were a few games like Banish the Devil and Defend the Skies that were ok. Banish the Devils actually let me try out a vigor…Bucking Bronco I think. Shame it didn't last, apparently it was modified to last for a few seconds. Defend the Skies was dreadful though. I just can't use a shotgun to save my life. But the final game was great."

The younger detective gives a dramatic pause before bragging "I had to use an air rifle to nail cardboard Vox Populi cutouts. It was so easy for me I bet the owner and spectators quadruple or noting that I could get a score of fifty. I got a good…Three Hundred Silver Eagles and some cigarettes on the side"

Jack opens the bag to reveal it's bursting with coins and cigarette packs.

"This was all done in five minutes?" Booker goes a little wide-eyed at Jack's prizes, but then he snaps back to reality, "How do we get out of here?"

"There's some sort of ticket machine over there to get past the gate, but that machine says all tickets have been bought out already. But, this lady was giving away free bottles of this "Possession" Vigor with an explanation of how it works. Apparently you can use it to control machines to help you." Jack replied as he tossed his boss an ornate bottle.

The design was odd. On it was a woman, lying on the bottle as her body arched in ecstasy at the top of the bottle. Above her chest rose a small pink heart. Booker pulled at the heart and it gave a satisfying *pop* to reveal the bottle's emerald green neck.

"Bottom's up, then." Jack said as he tossed the contents of the bottle down his throat.

Booker did the same, raising the bottle to his mouth and downing the mysterious liquid inside. Almost immediately, Booker's vision dimmed and narrowed. A sickly green haze followed people as they moved. And in his ears, Booker could hear the faint whispers and giggles of a woman unknown.

Then almost as fast as they had come, the visions that had just plagued Booker slipped away and his vision returned to normal. Along his left arm, however, the green haze remained. Booker looked to Jack and saw his partner experiencing similar trauma.

Jack rubbed his eyes vigorously, "That was something else, Boss."

"Yeah…it was." Booker agreed "So how do you use this?"

"It's pretty simple, follow me, Boss." Jack gestured for Booker to come with him.

Soon enough they arrived at a machine called "Veni, Vidi, Vigor!" On it, a mechanized man in a black suit and top hat with glowing yellow eyes nestled in the machine, danced around, enticing customer to browse its wares.

"Just concentrate on your left arm." Jack instructed, "Think of possessing the target in front of you and release."

Booker did as instructed and, to his own astonishment, a spectral figure flew from his arm and into the machine. The machine shook violently as it was drowned in a warm, green light. When the shaking stopped, dozens of Silver Eagles spewed out from the machine and onto the floor.

Booker staggered a bit as he beheld his handiwork, "Whoa…what the hell?"

"The lady explained that there's quite a bit of mental drain on the user each time a vigor is used. These things called salts should restore any energy lost." Jack explained as he gathered their newfound riches.

Jack then proceeded to spend all of their money, on the machine and a bottle popped out of the machine. Unlike Possession, this bottle had a man riding a bucking horse. Jack twisted of the cap and downed the contents. Jack's eyes grew wide as he stared at his arms and began to brush at something that…wasn't there. It was all in his head and he shook his head, coming back to reality.

"That's Bucking Bronco, boss." Jack said, pointing to the empty bottle, "Makes you levitate objects."

"I hope that's a good investment, kid." Booker lamented, "You just cleaned us out."

"Don't worry, boss." Jack laughed, "Now lets get those tickets."

Jack cast possession of the ticket-dispensing machine and it sparked with life.

"Well if it isn't Assemblyman Buford! Your spot at the raffle awaits!" The machine spoke in a welcoming voice as the gate swung open, "Don't know why I didn't recognize you earlier. Odd."

Jack and Booker rushed through before the gate closed. Only to be met by a couple wearing the most apathetic facial expressions in the history of the world. The man stood tall at about Jack's height, chalkboards tied together and thrown over his suit. On the chalkboards were two divisions: Heads, which had ten tallies and Tails, which was devoid of any marks. The woman on the other hand, merely held a ceramic plate.

"Heads?" The man asked curtly.

"Or tails?" The lady finished the phrase.

"C'mon let us through." Booker stated, exasperation lacing his voice.

The man immediately tossed a coin to Booker, which Jack was quick to intercept. The pair looked at the young investigator with blank expressions before turning to Booker again.

"Heads?" The man repeated.

"Or tails?" the woman finished with a slightly annoyed tone.

"Fine," Jack said, "Tails."

The coin soared through the air for a short time before finally landing onto the plate the woman held. The couple glanced at the coin then to Jack.

"Tails…" The man observed, "Not what I had predicted."

"Well someone needed to add some variation to this exercise, brother." The woman chided as she marked the first tally under tails.

The man and woman walked off to the side for the partners to proceed past. When they were out of sight, the man turned to the woman.

"This was far more satisfying than I'd expected." He deadpanned, "A very interesting development.

"Interesting indeed, brother." The woman held her chin as she considered the change in pace, "Very interesting indeed."

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**Aaaaand...there you have it! I promise I'll pick up on the action next chapter. Would you kindly review? Also remember I'm still looking for people to beta the story. **

**Much love,**

**-TTL**

**P.S. - On an entirely unrelated note, I saw the new movie Oblivion this weekend. And guess the Protagonist's name: Jack Harper! Haha. It was a pretty good movie, but rather predictable IMHO.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Well, here it is! I made the chapter a lot longer than what it used to be. I thank all of you for your incredible patience with me and I hope for your continued patronage. Please R&R!-TTL**

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"Well," Jack took a furtive glance over his shoulder, "they were…interesting to say the least."

Booker and Jack continued away from the odd couple and quickly happened upon some children playing hopscotch. Jack stopped for a moment and watched them play.

"Songbird, Songbird, see him fly." A little girl happily chanted as she hopped across the stone, "Drop the children from the sky. When the young ones misbehave, escorts children to their grave. Never backtalk, never lie, or he'll drop you from the sky!"

"That's morbid." The younger detective shifted uncomfortably at the child's chant, "And kind of scary too."

"Come on, Kid." Booker beckoned to his partner, "I'm sure it's just another _holy lie_ woven by Comstock made to control these people."

The pair ventured forth, passing a large poster saying "Sing Praise to the Songbird! For he is the protector of the Lamb!"

"I really hope you're right boss." Jack looked at the menacing poster, "Because that thing looks like a demon."

Soon, the pair came to a landing, to their left two police officers chatted. One carried a curious device on his left arm.

"When did you get that?" The shortest of the blue-clad pair inquired.

"Oh, this little beauty?" The taller one stated smugly, brandishing his left arm, " The whole division got them. If we're gonna flush the Vox from the sky-line system, we gotta have the best."

"They got any openings in that group?" The first officer cracked his knuckles and laughed, "I'd _love _to bust some Vox skull!"

"Well actually they've-" The second officer began but stopped short. Finally taking notice of Booker and Jack looking at them.

"Something you gentlemen need this fine afternoon?" He asked.

"I was just wondering what that thing your wearing is." Booker said plainly, "And what the sky-line is."

The policemen looked at Booker then at each other and burst out laughing. Their jolly fit carried on for a good two minutes, until they finally stopped themselves.

"Oh that's a good one, sir!" The taller lawman looked at Booker, "What's the skyline? That's priceless!"

"I wasn't kidding." Booker stared the lesser man down. His eyes like knives, stabbing the men who had just mocked him with an evil glare.

The men grew quiet and the color drained from their faces. The smiles that once danced on their faces moments before were instead replaced by the look of pure fear. There was something about this man, something in his eyes that told them, "I will kill you."

Booker began to grow agitated at their continued silenced, mistaking fear for mockery. He took one step forward, only to feel a hand rest on his shoulder.

"I'm very very sorry for my partner's behavior." Jack gave a warm smile to the terrified lawmen, "We're new here and it's been a long day, you see. If you would kindly just answer my friends questions we'd be most grateful."

The men's shoulders sagged down and they breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The taller, mustached officer recovered first.

"So you're pilgrims then?" He asked, to which Jack nodded, "Then allow me to both apologize for our rude behavior and formally welcome you both to our city of Columbia! My name is Officer Jonathan Ford and this is my friend and fellow officer Gerald Thompson." He finished with a renewed smile on his lips.

"The sky-lines are a the large metal rails that you see wrap around the city, winding through buildings and such. They connect different portions of our city that would otherwise be difficult to access as well as carrying cargo between areas." Officer Ford explained.

"But with the rise of those damned Irish and Negro _Vox Populi_, the sky-line system has been compromised!" Thompson acidly spat, "Shipments are damaged or lost entirely, really mucks up how the city runs."

"So only answer to stopping the Vox from attacking the shipments on the sky-lines is to meet them there. With the use of these wonders called Sky-Hooks we can chase after them and protect the shipments." Ford finished, pointing to the device on his left arm.

The device itself was simple, yet sophisticated. Adorned with carvings around most of the object, the Sky-Hook was a triple-hooked rotary device designed to latch onto the sky-lines. Given both the size hooks and the speed at which they rotated, Booker judges that it could easily crush bone and snap necks. The Sky-Hook was stylish and deadly at the same time.

"So that's that. Anything else you need help with, gentlemen?" Ford asked once more.

"No, that'll be it. Thank you both, officers!" Jack slightly bowed as they left.

"I know what you're going to say, and I'm sorry." Booker grumbled in a hushed tone as they walked.

"Booker, I'm not angry, but you have got to get over this fury of yours. You nearly blew what little cover we had!" Jack whispered back furiously, "We can't afford to-what the heck?"

Jack was cut off as the pair beheld a most curious event. Before them stood a statue of a man, however the air around the stone sculpture seemed to bend and ripple. Slowly, the piece of art was swallowed by a circle of light and morphed into that of a woman, who, to be entirely fair, looked exactly like the man from earlier except with a dress on instead of a suit and a different hair style.

"Holy Hell." Jack whispered, "Did you see that too?"

"Yeah…" Booker answered in an equally perplexed tone, "Let's go examine that thing."

The walked up to the statue and began to examine it. Jack climbed up on the base and rapped the statue with this knuckles, massaging them as they bounced against the hard stone.

"Solid stone, Boss." He said to his partner, "But no way we both hallucinated that."

"Hey, look at this," Booker beckoned to Jack, "R. Lutece…that's the same name from the telegram."

"There's something strange going on here, Boss. A false prophet leading a false religion, drinks that give you magical powers, and now statues changing into other statues. What the hell is going on?" Jack lamented.

"You forgot to mention the fact we're on a flying city," Booker deadpanned, "The faster we get the girl and get out of this place. The sooner we get back to normalcy, let's go, Kid."

Taking a last, furtive glance at the statue, Jack followed Booker. To his right, a giant balloon of George Washington hugged another building. Fireworks and music still rang loud in the sky. The air was still fresh and the sun beat down gently on him. Jack closed his eyes and took a deep breath calming him down. Then they both saw the next poster.

Planted directly in front of them was a poster of a demonic, warped right hand with the letters "A.D." emblazoned on its dark flesh. "You shall know the False Shepherd by his mark!" it warned.

"What the…?" Booker glanced at his own right hand. The letters "A.D." there so long he couldn't even remember when or why he'd gotten them.

"That's impossible!" He almost yelled, "There's no way anyone could've known we'd be-" only to be cut off by Jack.

"That Lutece person knew, right?" Jack observed, brining a grudging nod from Booker, "Then Comstock probably knew too. The real question is _why _they care. Just who are we picking up, Boss?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you, Kid." Booker said, "You know that."

"Well at least tell me that you have some gloves or something." Jack asked hopefully.

"No luck there either, Kid." The older man turned out his pockets, "Hope for the best."

The detectives ignored the people massing in lines for the raffle, instead continuing down the street towards another portion of the city. Sadly, the area was gated off and guarded.

"Could you let us through, sir?" Jack questioned one of the policemen guarding the gate.

"No can do, son." The guard answered resolutely, "This area's closed till the raffle's over. You should go check it out. I hear the prize is really nice this year!"

Jack reverted to full child mode and he turned to Booker, his eyes grinning with childish hope and delight.

Booker let out a heavy, defeated sigh, "Well we have nothing else to do, let's go."

As Jack races off to the raffle, Booker decides to take everything a little slower, observing this raffle and all its eager participants.

Men and women had organized themselves into various lines throughout the area. Their faces betrayed feelings of delight and eagerness. However, Booker was left with an odd feeling deep in his gut. Everyone appeared innocent and happy, but why were they being given baseballs? He crept closer to one of the lines to find out more.

"Oooh, this is it! This is it!" A middle-aged woman in a rouge dress squealed in delight

"I feel like I've waited all year for this!" A man agreed, anticipation lacing his words.

Then a mustached man in a bowler hat haughtily declared to his friend, "We'll see about that, I'm feeling lucky!"

"Yeah," His companion snorted, "you've _always _got a feeling."

Booker shook his head, deciding that he'd wasted enough time trying to figure out what they were so eagerly anticipating. Instead, he opted to find Jack. He soon came to a clearing where people massed in front of a stage, all of them holding baseballs with various numbers painted on them. A man in a top hat with a wicked moustache danced gaily upon the stage, leading the crowd in song.

"Splendid, haha!" His voice boomed in the air as he flitted about.

"Hey, who's that?" Booker asked nudging the shoulder of a passing man.

"The man on the stage?" The stranger inquired, "Why that's Jeremiah Fink! Head proprietor of Fink Industries!" He finished proudly.

"Thanks," Booker said as he left the man behind, "Fink, he seems important. Better remember him." He muttered.

Suddenly, Jack's bright face popped up in front of him, catching him off guard.

"Boss!" He screamed over the crowd's chanting.

"Ahhh!" Booker stumbled backwards

"Don't sneak up on me like that, Kid." He chastised his partner.

Jack hung his head, "Sorry, Boss, but…" his brought his head upwards to reveal a beaming smile, "Isn't this amazing?"

"Yeah, sure." Booker dismissed his partner in his childish daze, "Let's just get this over wi-"

Booker wasn't allowed to finish before, Jack grabbed his wrist and began muscling through the people in front of them to reach the front of the stage.

"Best seats in the house!" The young detective held his head high.

Booker simply stared upwards in exasperation. Honestly, in these circumstances, Booker would prefer the cold, calculating Jack that he usually was when on the job. However, it was almost as if Comstock planned for this fair to be there to distract him. It all gave Booker a titanic headache.

"And now…. the 1912 raffle has officially begun!" Fink roared, snapping Booker from his thoughts.

"Hey mister, mister!" A young blonde woman in a pink dress called to Booker. It was clear she was handing out raffle balls, given the giant basket tethered around her neck. She wore a coy expression and motioned him over with her finger.

"Wouldn't you like a ball?" She whispered in a soft, sultry voice.

"Sorry," Booker deadpanned, looking her in the eye, "No sale."

Much to his surprise, the woman merely began laughing, "Silly, there's never a charge for the raffle! You been sleeping under a rock?"

Booker reached for a ball, but a hand shot out from his right, taking the ball he had intended to take for himself.

"Hey!" Booker turned to see Jack with a mischievous grin.

"In that case, I'll be taking this one, Boss!" Jack smiled warmly.

His smile wasn't unnoticed by the woman and she turned a light shade of red. Then she saw his number.

"Oooh," She cooed, "Seventy-seven, that's a lucky number. I'll be rooting for you" She whispered into Jack's ear.

Booker grabbed another ball, a double zero. And felt an odd sense of relief when he looked at it. Jack, on the other hand, frowned as he looked at his ball.

"Wasn't this the number that telegram warned you _not _to get, Boss?" The younger detective asked worriedly.

Seeing the clear look of despair on his partner's face, Booker tried to soothe his fears, "It was, but _you _were the one who got it, not me. I'm sure you'll be alright, Kid."

Jack shoulders heave in relief and color returns to his face as Fink begins the raffle.

"Bring me the bowl!" Fink calls over the crowd's cheers. A lovely young woman saunters up to the industrialist, carrying an American Flag patterned bowl.

"Is that not the prettiest young white girl in all of Columbia? Haha!" He gestures to his assistant before placing his hand into the bowl, "The winner is…number seventy-seven!"

"Well what do ya know?" Booker mutters as he looks at Jack.

Jack cringes as his number is called and begins to creep away. However, the action is futile as the woman from earlier rushes over and points at Jack.

"Over here! He's the winner!" She pushes Jack to the front.

"Why so nervous, my boy?" Fink chuckles, "Number seventy-seven come and claim you're prize…FIRST THROW!"

Fink motions to the now ascending red velvet curtain. Jubilant music changes to a crude mockery of "Here Comes the Bride" as an Irishman and Negro woman tied to posts and dressed in wedding clothes are brought to a stage. Fink swings his arms happily to the music and the crowd begins to jeer at and insult the mixed couple.

"Please…please don't do this." The woman looks Jack dead in the eyes. Her own eyes are bloodshot and full of fear as she looks at Jack and then the ball in his hands.

"It was me! It was all me!" The groom yells at Jack, "Please, please! No…" he ends with a whimper,

Jack looks unsure, his eyes hover to Booker, stone-faced and staring at Fink with rage burning in his eyes. Fink, however, doesn't seem to notice and keeps drinking in the moment.

"Please! What are you doing!?" The groom begs again, "Let her go please! I'm the one you want!"

"Looks like we've got a shy one here! C'mon, boy, are you gonna throw it?...Or are you taking your coffee black these days? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" Fink taunts Jack.

"I've got something for you, you son of a bitch!" Jack's eyes steel over as he l beams the ball…right into Fink's smiling face. Fink immediately falls to the ground, writhing in pain. The crowd goes silent at the abrupt turn of events.

Fink rises from the ground, his mouth bloody from the loss of a tooth, with an evil grin. With a flick of his wrist, the mixed couple shocked to silence like the crowd soon disappears behind the large curtain. Then a pair of policemen race up and grab both Booker and Jack.

"We've found him" One hisses as he shows Booker's right hand to Fink and then the crowd, "It's him!"

"Well, well, well" Fink rubs his hands together, "Where'd you get that brand boy? Don't you know that makes you the back-stabbin', snake in the grass False Prophet? And look, you have a Vox sympathizer in toe as well!"

"And we ain't letting no False Shepard and Negro-Lover into our flock!" The mad businessman throws his hands into the air in a grandiose manner, "Show 'em both what we got planned, boys!"

Jack struggles as he's forced to watch as friendly officer Ford from earlier, readies to smash his skyhook into Booker's face.

In a flash, Booker tosses his ball into the air. He feels Thompson's vise grip relax on his arm and then he acts. The grizzled veteran wrests himself free from Thompson, grabs him and introduces him to Ford's skyhook. Blood, bone, and gray matter splatter Booker and the now horrified Ford. Ford lets go of the bloody weapon, now planted in his partner's face.

Fink and the crowd flee in terror at the scene. Jack wrestles free as well, quickly grabbing his bowie knife from his boot and plunging it deep into his captor's chest. Booker takes the skyhook out of Thompson's bloody face and immediately engages Ford.

He starts up the skyhook and bashes the poor soul in the skull, killing him instantly.

"Well that escalated quickly," Jack wipes his bloody knife on Ford's clothes.

"Yeah, it really did." Booker agrees.

The tweeting of whistles and sounds of leather boots on stone alert the detectives to the presence of more policemen.

"C'mon, Kid." Booker says resolutely, "Looks like we've just gotten started."

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**So how did you like/not like it? I hope this met some of your expectations and thanks for reading! See you soon!-TTL**


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